


Food of Love (Play On)

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryland's a waiter by day, a struggling actor by night, and guitarist in Gabe's endless series of hipster bands on the weekends. Then a blast from his past comes to work at the restaurant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Food of Love (Play On)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kinetikatrue in the 2011 bandomstuffsit holiday exchange.

On Wednesdays, he does accents.

Wednesdays are slow, which means most of his fellow waitstaff hate them and try to pawn off the shifts if they can. Nobody is going to make rent off of Wednesday lunch-shift tips. Ryland has some other sources for rent money, though. He's diversified. Not wholly restaurant-dependent. And it's much easier to practice on the patrons when there are fewer of them and he's not likely to trip over a busboy and drop a plate of hot food in anyone's lap.

Therefore, Ryland scoops up weekday lunch shifts like precious jewels, or puppies. And as the days go by in a slideshow of puppies, he rolls out different skills he'll need for the auditions he has in the evenings.

Wednesdays are for accents. On this particular day, he has four tables over the course of the lunch shift, and he goes through his basics. English, Australian, German, French.

The table who is waited on by Guy, late of Oxford, is enchanted enough by him to leave a 40% tip. The other three all look at him funny and whisper among themselves when he walks away. Probably he needs more practice on those.

(Actually, the table who gets Jean-Pierre only tips him 10%, which is both insulting and probably a sign that he should retire French from his repertoire altogether. He has other sources for his rent, but he's not exactly rolling in it. The weekday lunch margin is stable but narrow. Yeah, no more French accents.

Maybe he'll see what he can do with Russian.)

**

He had business cards printed up in a fit of exuberance and tequila a while back. Most of them were destroyed in an unfortunate flooding situation in his apartment (Gabe's fault). Still, he has one tacked up above the wobbly card table he uses as a desk.

  
_Ryland Blackinton  
Waiter, Musician, Actor  
(in reverse order of priority)  
Ladies' Man on the Weekends  
Reasonable rates! Enquire today!_   


At this point his rates are maybe less _reasonable_ and more _questionably pathetic_. Still, he's keeping himself in vodka and haircuts. And his grandmother sends a check every few months, because he is the most kickass grandson on the East Coast. That's just pure truth, the kind you can rely on with your morning coffee.

He told his grandmother this once, at a birthday brunch that featured maybe a slight excess of mimosas. She looked at him and said that actually the checks came more from the fact that she saw a news report once about artsy types in New York being reduced to eating garbage, and she worried about him.

It took a few more mimosas and two plates of eggs Benedict to soothe the sting to his ego, but the fact remains: his grandmother acknowledges his status as an artsy type and is not pressuring him to go into teaching, or data entry. And he is _not_ eating garbage to survive. Nor has he been evicted.

He's doing just fine.

**

On the Wednesday that he retires Jean-Pierre, he does not have an audition lined up. Nothing to be concerned about. He expects to hear back from last week's audition at any time. And he has band practice, because Gabe did his thing (nobody asks in any detail what Gabe's thing might be) and got them a gig for the weekend.

"Who are we this week?" Ryland asks as he takes his guitar from its case. "And where's Elisa?"

"She's at work," Gabe says, not looking up from where he's tuning Jason's bass. "And we're still Art From Stone."

 _Work_ , where Elisa's concerned, probably means _asleep_. Ryland doesn't want to have that conversation again. Also, he's pretty sure that they haven't been Art From Stone for a few weeks now. Last week they definitely performed as Somnambulent Fossil. But Gabe is the boss.

Gabe places the bass carefully into Jason's hands. "Are you sure you're up to this, brother?" he asks, gazing into Jason's eyes like he's bestowing some kind of blessing. Ryland squints at Jason and hopes the blessing will be sufficient. Poor guy has been slowly downward-spiraling for the last three months. He really needs to go to rehab, preferably somewhere far away from the city where every dealer knows his name, cell-phone number, and most importantly, how much of a cut he gets per shitty gig with Gabe's rotating stable of questionable hipster bands.

"I'm cool, man," Jason says, smiling at Gabe like he's the center of the world. Jason's eyes are so glazed over he may be seeing the _actual_ center of the world instead of Gabe at all. Or possibly the prototypical pink elephants. "Let's do this."

Nate counts them off and they...do this. It's solid. Not great, but not bad.

They're doing just fine, too.

**

Friday lunch shifts are significantly busier than earlier in the week, and the only thing Ryland gets to practice is keeping his temper and maintaining an air of class and charm in the face of insult and stupidity. Not coincidentally, Fridays are also the day he's most likely to break a sweat.

This particular Friday, though, the manager waves him over when he arrives. "Ry," Felipe calls, "come meet the new sous."

"Finally." Allan, the owner, has been stalling on hiring a new sous-chef for weeks. It's at the point where Gino, the head chef, has been making threats to either quit or start serving up mouseburgers instead of filet.

It's a silent point of pride in the restaurant that nobody warn the poor bastard what he's getting himself into. Ryland screws an appropriate smile to his face and follows Felipe back to the kitchen.

It's quiet, comparatively, since they haven't opened the doors yet. The cooks are moving around making sure their mise-en-place is correct, that they have all the tools and ingredients they're likely to need, that their favorite knives are ready and they have enough towels. Typical morning prep time. Ryland loves the kitchen when it's firing on all cylinders and you really have to squint to find the order in the chaos, but this is nice, too. Like a ballet instead of an action movie.

"Suarez," Felipe calls, and the guy down at the end of the line looks up, blinking from behind black-rimmed glasses. Ryland does a double-take, mentally taking off the glasses, growing out the hair, adding some sun-bleaching, and swapping the chef's jacket for some truly ugly Hawaiian print. Nope, no mistake. Suarez indeed.

"This is Ryland, the head waiter for most of our weekday shifts," Felipe says. "Ryland, this is Alex--"

"Holy shit." Suarez sets down his knife and stands up straighter, wiping his hands on his checks. "Ry Blackinton? You're still alive?"

"That fucker is too crazy to die," Luis mutters from the salad station. Ryland flips him off and sidesteps Felipe to pull Alex into a hug.

"Fucking touching as shit," Liz calls from her end of the line. "What kind of a reunion are we looking at here? How does Ry know the new meat?"

"High school," Ryland says, flipping her off, too, just for good measure. "And don't make him afraid for his virtue, Elizabeth. We want him to stick around."

"Because you wants his ass?" Luis asks.

"Because if he doesn't, Gino kills us all," Felipe says, taking Ryland by the shoulder and pulling him back toward the door. "That's really cute that you two know each other. But we open in half an hour, so how about we focus on that and save the reunionating for later?"

Ryland shoots Alex a thumbs-up and the universal hand sign for _all of the booze_ as Felipe shoves him back out to the floor. He knows, even though the door closes before he can see, that Suarez gets it. He was a sharp guy before, and Ryland can already tell he hasn't changed a bit.

**

"I'm only on the day shift until I learn the menu," Alex says when they leave the restaurant and take Ryland's patent-pending shortcut to his favorite bar. "So this is probably pretty much the only time we'll get to do this, and then I'll never see daylight again."

"True, but you make the big money."

"Ha!" Alex shakes his head and bumps his glasses up higher on his nose. They've fallen into step with each other easily, swerving their way down the sidewalk. It's like old times. "I wish."

"You make more money than me, at least."

"I did my time as waitstaff. I know the pain."

"Then you also know how to fix the pain." Ryland bows extravagantly and holds the door to the bar open. "After you."

"Thank you, my good sir." Alex laughs and walks inside, glancing around the dimly lit interior. "Holy shit, this is sketchy."

"Reminds you of home, right?"

"Shit." Alex heads for the back and Ryland follows, glancing over at the bar to see who's on today. He knows everyone who works here, because Gabe pulls one or two shifts at the bar per week as part of _his_ "putting together a living wage" package, along with the bands and games of back-room poker with guys who would not hesitate to remove his kidneys if they felt like it had been made necessary.

(He's invited Ryland to sit in on a game any time, but given that that's just about the only gig Ryland can think of that's _more_ potentially devastating than acting, he's so far stayed away. If he ever needs a root canal, though, he's just going to put his life in Gabe's hands and hope for mercy.)

Today Gabe is actually behind the bar himself, polishing a glass and giving a customer the thousand-yard stare that means the poor guy probably ordered something that involves fruit juice or domestic beer. "Saporta," Ryland calls, waving to distract Gabe before he starts telling the guy how he feels. "Hey."

"Ry!" Gabe pulls a beer out from under the bar and shoves it toward the customer, then moves to find a bigger glass for Ryland's usual draft. "What's up, my man, my brother, my homeboy?"

"Not much." Alex has smoothly changed direction and moved up to the bar, glancing back and forth between Ryland and Gabe. "Just got off-shift. Hey, this is my buddy Alex."

Gabe stops pulling, foam bubbling up over the edge of the glass and running down onto the bar. "I didn't know you _had_ buddies, Ry. Since when do you meet people?"

"We met like ten years ago," Alex says, offering his hand. "Went to high school together in Florida. I'm Alex Suarez."

"Gabe Saporta." Gabe wipes the edge of the glass on his shirt and hands it to Ryland. "Welcome to New York. You here on business or pleasure?"

"He's the new sous at the restaurant."

It's Ryland's turn for the thousand-yard stare. "I don't know what that means."

"I'm a chef." Alex studies Ryland's beer, then leans forward to look at the row of draft pulls in front of Gabe. "You got anything...ooh, yeah, on the end there. Please."

"Good taste." Gabe nods in approval and gets another glass, shooting Ryland a look that makes him bite back a sigh. He's going to have to pull Alex aside and explain to him about Gabe. Otherwise Gabe will attach himself to Alex and then Alex's life will get really weird. That'll probably happen anyway, but it's only fair to warn the guy about it.

"We're going to sit in the back," Ryland says, catching Alex's arm and tugging him away from the bar. "Just open a tab and put in an order for wings and hummus?"

Alex raises an eyebrow at him. "A shitty bar that serves hummus?"

Gabe scribbles their order down and shoves it at a passing waitress. "Welcome to New York."

**

Catching up on old times is one of Ryland's favorite activities. It's low-pressure, it's enhanced by booze, and it involves a lot of laughing, telling stories, and hand gestures. That's like a short list of things he enjoys and is good at.

Alex, also, is something he enjoys and is good at, he thinks after beer number four or so, when they've moved on from school stories (apparently culinary school is just as good as studying theater when it comes to getting laid and learning a bare minimum of useful life skills) to drunk stories. Alex has woken up in his share of questionable beds, living rooms, and apparently boats. Ryland's never woken up in a boat. He has found himself covered in blue body paint and glitter, though, so he's not out of the running yet.

"Shit, man," Alex sighs, taking another beer from the waitress with a smile and running his finger around the rim of the glass. "I can't fucking believe the luck, running into you again. It's weird, right?"

"Totally weird." Ryland nods and takes a mushroom from the totally fucked-up veggie plate the bar serves with its hummus. He's pretty sure Gabe's responsible for that. "But awesome. I mean, out of all the restaurants in New York, right?"

"Right." Alex shakes his head and laughs, more of a giggle than his sober laugh, higher-pitched and loose. "So, hey, I've been meaning to ask for like...four beers now. How do you know the bartender?"

Ryland makes a face and takes a drink, swirling the beer around his mouth to buy a few extra seconds. How does anyone know Gabe? How does anyone answer that question without giving up their Fifth Amendment rights? "We're in a band together."

Alex's eyes go wide and he almost chokes. "Fuck, really? You still play?"

"Oh yeah." It's more uncomfortable, for reasons he's never been able to figure out, to admit that he still does music than that he's still trying to make it as an actor. Theater school, maybe. He has a _degree_ in the damn acting, but the rock-star thing, that's just acting out. "Yeah, it's just...side projects, I guess. Little bands. We play around the city, in Jersey, sometimes up to Boston or down to DC or something. Nothing big."

"So is that, like, his main gig, or something? Music?"

Ryland nods and takes another drink, glancing over at Gabe behind the bar, where he's holding up a bottle of top-shelf vodka like it holds the answers to human civilization. "Yeah. He had a band back a couple years ago that almost went big. Midtown?" Alex shakes his head and Ryland shrugs. "And you know the movie _Snakes on a Plane_?"

Alex blinks a few times. "Well, yeah, but what does that..."

"The song over the credits." Ryland shrugs again. "That was him and some people he knows. He tried to spin a band off that but it didn't work out. So he's working the industry. You know how it goes."

Alex makes a face and stabs a carrot stick into the hummus. "No, not really, but I guess it's probably about the same bullshit as the restaurant business, right?"

"Or theater." Ryland nods and drains his glass, then clinks it against Alex's half-full one. "The three of us could be some kind of cautionary ad for how not to choose a life plan."

"We really could." Alex carefully pours half of his beer into Ryland's glass. "But at least we're good-looking."

**

It's easy to settle into the routine of having a friend at work. The other chefs are all complete assholes about it, of course, but Ryland likes to think he contributes a certain je ne sais quoi to the kitchen, so really they're benefiting from his presence and, in conclusion, they can suck it.

"Je ne sais quoi," Alex echoes dubiously when Ryland informs him of his theory, one night about a month after he started at the restaurant. He's fresh out of the kitchen and Ryland is fresh from a gig with the band that's currently going by Ennui Theory. They actually had a really good show that night, possibly because Jason's finally in rehab and Gabe is covering bass himself. Letting the control freak do what he secretly wants to do anyway makes everything move more smoothly. Amazing. Not at all something Ryland's been trying to make happen for months now.

"Yeah. You know." Ryland tosses back a shot of Jameson and waves his free hand in the air. "It's French, it means, like..."

"An undefinable something." Alex smiles a little, crooked and close-lipped. "Yeah, I know."

"And that's me, right? I have an undefinable something."

"If by undefinable you mean microscopic." Gabe drops into the seat next to Ryland and pulls Elisa down into his lap. "And if by something you mean penis."

Elisa laughs and leans back against him, shooting Ryland a sneer. Ryland smiles at her and glances sidelong at Alex, who's solemnly making a cross with his fingers at her behind his beer glass. Ryland explained Elisa to Alex in detail-- that she has no reflection and is, without question, feeding on the souls of the innocent in her spare time. Then Alex came to one of their gigs and after-parties and found out for himself. Ryland suspects he doesn't take the idea of her evil quite as seriously as he should, but playing along and humoring him is really all Ryland asks for.

Ryland hunkers over his plate of fries to keep Gabe from stealing them. "I'm just saying. All juvenile insults aside, I have a certain quality. I light up a room."

"You _stink_ up a room--" Gabe starts, then cuts off as Elisa squeaks and jumps off his lap. "Sorry. That was my phone."

"It definitely wasn't your dick," she says, rolling her eyes and stalking off toward the bathroom. Gabe smirks and pulls his phone out of his pocket, giving Alex and Ryland a half-wave as he heads for the door to where he might actually be able to hear whoever's on the other end.

"Thank God you moved here," Ryland says, settling back in his seat now that the fries are no longer territory that required zealous guarding. "Those were my best friends."

"What does that have to do with me moving here?"

"Now _you're_ my best friend. The undisputed holder of the title."

Alex laughs and helps himself to some fries. "I'm flattered."

"Je ne sais quoi, mi amigo mejor."

Alex gives him a look that's a little too sharp for the moment, but he smiles before Ryland can ask him what's up. The way someone's eyes crinkle up at the corners when they smile is Ryland's favorite thing about a given face. Alex's does it remarkably well.

"Je ne sais quoi," Alex echoes, and they clink their glasses over the fries. "Yeah, man. That's you all right."

**

It's about a week after that when Ryland realizes things are getting weird.

Weird might be overstating it. Ryland's standards for weird are...nonstandard. Somewhat arbitrary. This doesn't ping alarm bells or anything. It's just...things get a trifle odd. That's a better way of putting it.

What happens is, Alex makes him dinner.

Not a root canal, but a sinus infection comes into his life, upsetting the delicate balance of where his money comes from and goes. Once he can breathe again, he has to pick up some dinner shifts at work, some of them in the form of doubles with the lunch shifts he's used to. That means he's back in the kitchen for the so-called family meal in the lull between shifts. Pasta, bread, veggies, a bit of fish or chicken if you ask sweetly and Carlos on the grill is in a good mood.

Except that's not what's on the plate that lands in front of Ryland.

"Three-cheese risotto with mushroom confit and barley salad," Alex says, wiping the edge of the plate carefully.

Ryland blinks at it. "I was expecting the usual."

"It's an experiment. You're my guinea pig." Alex lays his towel over his shoulder and fixes Ryland with a steady stare. "Eat."

Ryland hasn't lived this long by passing up opportunities at food. He eats. It's delicious.

"Are you pulling another double tomorrow?" Alex asks, taking the plate from him when he's done.

"No. Just the dinner shift." He has an afternoon audition. He wants the part desperately enough that he hasn't told anyone about it, so that if he _doesn't_ get it, he can fall on his sword in peace in his shitty apartment.

"Come in half an hour early," Alex says, turning away. "I'll have something for you."

"You don't have to do that."

Alex stops and looks at him, and Ryland gets a weird, creeping feeling on the back of his neck like he's missing something _very obvious_ and _very important_.

"I want to," Alex says, breaking the moment with another of those little smiles. "So make sure you show up, fucker. Don't leave me hanging here."

**

The audition goes really, really well. They laugh, they make little notes on the back of his head shot, they have a half-whispered conversation about if the place they get their costumes from can do pants in his size. He does a little victory jig on the sidewalk, then almost kills himself racing for the subway to get back to the restaurant in time.

"Braised duck with pomegranate reduction," Alex informs him as he places the plate. "And a dessert bruschetta."

"How does a dessert bruschetta work?"

"Just eat it."

Ryland does, careful to handle his knife and fork with aplomb, since Alex is standing there staring at him like he's memorizing every tiny motion eating requires. "Wow, this is really good."

"You like it?"

"That's what 'really good' means, yes."

"Asshole." Alex cocks his head, eyes narrowing a little as he watches Ryland chew. "Okay. What shift tomorrow?"

"I'm not on tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Lunch shift Friday."

Alex nods a little, his brow furrowing and his eyes getting sort of faraway. "Cool."

"Are you going to cook for me again?"

Alex's eyes snap back into focus and widen a little, like Ryland said something surprising. "I don't know. What do you think? Depends on the rush." He takes the plate, deftly rotating it so the last bit of dessert bruschetta--which is excellent, and Ryland regrets casting doubt on its validity as a food item--moves away from Ryland's fingers before he can claim it. "You've got some people up front, looks like Amanda's seating them in your section. Happy waiting." And he vanishes back into the kitchen without another word.

That might actually qualify upward from a trifle odd to genuinely weird, Ryland thinks as he straightens his tie and moves to greet his customers. He'll have to continue to watch and evaluate. Watching Alex isn't exactly a hardship, anyway.

**

"What we need," Gabe says, pacing back and forth across the room, "is a gimmick."

Those words used to worry Ryland a lot, coming from Gabe. Now, though, he just glances up long enough to check that Gabe's eyes are blazing with the unholy light of _I am going to fuck with people until they are confused enough to give me my way_ and not the one that means _I am going to behave in ways usually ascribed to cult leaders_.

"What kind of a gimmick?" he asks, going back to his script. They called him back for second audition. He is going to absolutely own this thing.

"Something that'll get people to wonder if we're serious or if it's just a gimmick."

"And it is just a gimmick."

"No. We'll be serious."

Ryland has to put the script down again. "Gabe."

"Don't worry. It'll all make sense."

"I sincerely doubt that." The scene they've marked for the second audition is a dialogue. Maybe Alex will run lines with him if he's not too tired after work Monday night.

"I'm thinking..." Gabe resumes pacing. Ryland wonders how the fuck Nate and Elisa got out of babysitting this evening. Where _are_ they, anyway?

"Nate's at work and Elisa's at a bachelorette party," Gabe says when Ryland repeats that question out loud.

"Since when does Nate have a job or Elisa have friends?"

"I got him one at the bar, and fuck you, don't be mean about my woman."

"Your woman is the meanest person on earth. What goes around comes around."

"Fuck off. I'm thinking." Gabe paces and Ryland closes his eyes, fantasizing about positive reviews and not having to wear a tie. And apple-squash soup with turmeric, which was Alex's most recent contribution to the Feed Ryland Lunch plan and which may have actually been the best thing he ever put in his mouth.

"I've got it," Gabe says, and this time when Ryland looks at him, he definitely has the cult-leader eyes going on. Motherfuck. "We're changing the band's name to match our mission statement."

"You mean gimmick."

"I mean mission statement."

"Okay." Ryland takes a deep breath. "Hit me."

He's pretty sure it's to his credit that when Gabe tells him, his only response is that Elisa's never going to go for it. All of the more obvious ones...well, there's no point trying to make Gabe see the obvious. He's got vision and the rest of the world wears sunglasses to shield them from the neon, which means they can't see through it to the holy light.

(That's not a Ryland original, for the record. It's something Gabe said himself after a very late night, a lot of sake, and a shouting match with Elisa about the relative merits of moving into a condemned building because Gabe really, really liked the facade.

Sometimes Ryland wonders if he has "sucker" written on his back, or if it's more of a pheromone thing. Like how dogs and bees can smell fear, only it's Gabe smelling him.)

**

He takes a day off work to prep for the audition, and then calls in sick the day after because he's convinced, utterly convinced in the depths of his soul, that he bombed it horribly and is going to die alone, unknown, and working as a waiter-slash-hipster-band-guitarist.

He spends that day lying on his back on the floor of his sincerely disgusting studio apartment, watching cockroaches do the cha-cha under his bed and ignoring the insistent ringing of his cell phone. He knows those ring tones. The first six calls are Gabe, and then Nate and Elisa once Gabe realizes he must be screening. He absolutely in no way has the energy to deal with talking other people into Gabe's bizarre plans today.

He falls asleep there on the floor, after putting a t-shirt over his face to keep the roaches from crawling up his nose and eating his brain. He might be drowning in failure and bleak despair, but he still has his dignity. And a deep-seated fear of bugs touching him.

The next day, he absolutely _must_ go to work. There are no options. If he doesn't, he won't be able to buy food. He drags himself to the shower and turns it on cold, half in self-flagellation and half in support of the mission statement.

(Fuck, he really is brainwashed. Goddamn cult-leader eyes. Goddamn _Gabe_.)

When he gets out of the shower, almost feeling human again with a towel around his waist and another around his hair, smelling like Old Spice and Barbasol as a man _should_ , he finds two missed calls on his phone. New ones, that is, not the mess he ignored the day before.

The first one is from the casting agent telling him he got the part and should drop by any time between noon and four to sign his contract.

The second is from Alex. "Hey, man. Hope you're feeling better. If you think you can make it in today, I'll have scallop tortellini with garden pea sauce on the plate at three."

It's already one-fifteen. He calls the casting agent back to see if there's any way he can sign that contract tomorrow.

**

He goes straight back to the kitchen when he arrives. "Hey, where's Suarez? I was promised lunch."

"Of course you were," Liz says, smirking and putting down her knife. "He's downstairs arguing with the produce guy. But your food's all ready. I'll bring it right out."

Ryland nods and goes back to the dining room, shaking off a weird little flash of disappointment. He can tell Alex about the gig later, before the dinner rush or after their shift. They'll go out and celebrate with booze and loud music and maybe some kind of conga line if things get crazy enough. The fact that he can't share his news _immediately_ is no big deal.

"How long are you going to keep toying with him, anyway?" Liz asks when she carries the plate out.

"Pardon?"

"I mean, I'm an expert at the hard-to-get routine, Ry, but Suarez isn't a saint. He won't wait _forever_."

"Liz, I for real genuinely have no idea what you're talking about."

She sets the plate down in front of him with a bang and then smacks the back of his head. "Idiot."

"Ow! What?"

"He cooks you a special meal almost every fucking day. He watches you like you walk on fucking water. Does he have to make the tortellini in the shape of little hearts, fucker?"

Ryland blinks at her, then at the plate, then at her again.

"Waiters," she says in disgust, hits him again, and goes back to the kitchen.

Ryland picks up his fork and stares at the not-heart-shaped tortellini. The late nights at the bar and the do-you-remembers and the leaning on each other to keep from falling down...that could all just be old friends being old friends. Or, as the romantic-comedy industrial complex would tell him, it could be something more. "I'm an idiot," he tells the plate. "And I have so much really, really awkward explaining to do."

**

Of course the fact that he's waiting for his shift to be over means that it's the longest, weirdest shift ever. He keeps sneaking over to the window to try to squint between the buildings and see if there's a full moon, because the freaks are most definitely out tonight.

The only way to get through is to pretend this isn't his life. He does the last three hours as Chip, a sweet-talking young man from Georgia who came to the city to pursue his dream of being a celebrity dogwalker. Chip makes better tips than Ryland, and probably has a more secure career path. But Ryland has an acting gig, a band (a kind of dysfunctional one, but still, it's a band), and possibly, if he plays his cards right, a cute boyfriend who speaks Spanish and can do mysterious things with meat. Chip's got nothing on him. Fuck that guy.

Since he's waiting for Alex to finish up for the night, he ends up staying well past the rest of the waitstaff. He sits at the bar, nursing the beer he liberated from the cooler before they locked it up for the night. His take is lined up in front of him, neat piles of cash left from tipping out the busboys. Not a bad night at all. He fully intends to spend all of it on either celebratory or comforting alcohol depending on how this next conversation goes.

Alex comes out of the kitchen looking halfway to dead on his feet, a smear of sauce down his cheek and his jacket unbuttoned to his navel. "Ry? Hey. You didn't have to stick around."

"I figured we'd grab a drink."

Alex looks at the bottle in Ryland's hand. "Did you save me one too?"

"Oh. No." The restaurant's default stock is watery and disgusting. "I figured we could go out."

Alex drags his hand over his hair slowly, frowning when his thumb dips through the sauce. "Man, any other night I'd be all over that, Ry, but I am fucking wiped out."

Fuck. "Oh, sure. Totally. You look really tired."

"Eleven hours in the kitchen, you know? And Tony got set on fire. Accidentally, I think."

"I would hope so."

"Well, the thing is, you never know." Alex rubs his eyes. "It's totally possible that Stevie set him on fire on purpose."

"That's...scary."

"That's the kitchen." Alex shrugs and offers him a half-smile. "So anyway. Tired."

"I get that. Just...there was kind of something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?"

"But it can wait."

"No, what is it?"

"I really planned on talking about it over beer."

Alex reaches out and takes the bottle from Ryland's hand. He looks at the label, makes a face, and then drains the rest of it in one long swallow. "There. Now talk."

"Well." Ryland takes a deep breath, trying to draw on some kind of stage training or basic self-confidence or the patience of years of dealing with Gabe or _something_. Unfortunately, it's hard to remember any of that when Alex is rubbing a wet beer bottle on his face and looking tired and five o'clock-shadow-y. "I had this audition."

"Oh yeah? What for?"

"This play. It's...it's really great. It's an erotic comedy."

Alex chokes a little, pressing his hand over his mouth to cover the sound. "Oh. That's great."

"Yeah. Well, you know. It was a fun audition."

"Did you get the role?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Yes, I did."

"Dude! That's awesome!" Alex pulls him into a hug, patting his back. "Wow, that's great."

"Thanks." Ryland hugs him back and then disentangles himself, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm going to be completely naked on-stage, and stuff, so that's...um...incredibly awkward, actually."

There's a very long moment of almost completely awkward silence.

"This wasn't what I meant to talk to you about at all," Ryland says finally.

Alex smiles slightly and rubs the back of his neck. "How about we go get a beer after all, to celebrate your future nakedness, and then you can tell me the other thing?"

**

It's Alex's turn to pick the bar, and he goes for one Ryland's never been to before but that Alex says all of the chefs swear by. That probably means it's cheap and nobody objects to people having sex in the bathroom. Ryland's kind of place.

"So," Alex says, placing their shots and beers on the table. "Congratulations again."

"Thank you."

"Shots." They both slam them back and Ryland shudders a little, letting the nasty rail whiskey coat his throat. Alex makes a face and chases it with a sip of beer, then gestures with his free hand. "Now, what's up?"

Ryland shrugs and writes his initials in the condensation on his glass.

"Are you okay?" Alex prompts, frowning a little. "Are you, like, in hock to the mob or something?"

Ryland blinks. "I don't think New York even has a mob anymore."

"Obviously you don't talk to Gabe." Alex takes another drink. "Or pay attention to garbage removal at the restaurant."

"Wait, what?"

"Never mind."

"No, this is interesting, go back to that."

"Ryland." Alex has a good stern voice when he wants to. That's probably how he keeps the kitchen staff in line, come to think of it. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well." Ryland tries for an intelligent frown. "Do you remember when we were in tenth grade, and we ate lunch together every day, and sat together in algebra, and then I was all confused when you invited me to your birthday party, because it hadn't occurred to me that we were actually friends?"

Alex nods slowly. "Do I remember that you were kind of an idiot in tenth grade. Yes. Yes, I do."

"I'm not an _idiot_ , I just don't always do well with nonverbal cues and sometimes it helps if people, like, write shit down for me."

"You just majorly switched from past to present tense, dude," Alex says softly, his fingers tightening around his glass.

"I know. I am aware. I'm just saying, cooking me amazing food is a totally nonverbal thing, but, like, writing me a note on a napkin and slipping it to me after reviewing the specials, that would've--"

"Are you trying to tell me, in an incredibly roundabout and awkward way, that you finally figured out that I've been hitting on you?"

"I wouldn't exactly say figured it out. I am _aware_ now."

"Who told you?"

Ryland takes a drink to hide his expression. "Liz."

"Dammit. I owe her ten bucks." Alex sets his glass down and looks at Ryland for a long moment. "So..."

Ryland waits, but he doesn't say anything else. "What?"

"What?"

"No, you first."

"Oh my God." Alex buries his face in his hands. "Ryland, you impossible dipshit, do you want to go out with me?"

"Yes," Ryland says, picking his glass up again. "Yes, I do, very much. I thought that was implied."

Ten seconds later he's wearing the beer, but it's very much balanced out by the fact that Alex is dragging him back through the bar to the bathroom.

**

Ryland is taller but Alex is _solid_ , and he has the confidence of a guy who handles knives and hot grease for a living. He backs Ryland right up into the wall and proceeds to kiss him like he's making up for lost time.

Ryland is mildly curious about if that lost time is the months at the restaurant, or if it goes all the way back to Florida, and if so, how far. But that is most definitely a question for another time.

"Wait," he manages, turning his head so Alex's mouth hits his jaw. Alex licks him and then goes for his neck, which, _oh_. Suarez is really fucking suave. "Wait!"

Alex pulls back, breathing hard, one hand still curled around Ryland's arm. "I thought you said you were _interested_."

"I am. Really a lot. Again, not great with subtlety, though."

"I'm not _being_ subtle right now."

"I'm just saying, next time less saying it with food and more saying it with words."

Alex's eyes narrow a little. "What, is there something wrong with the food I was making you?"

"No! No." Again, the man handles knives and hot grease for a living. Ryland's not so much of an idiot that he'll insult him.

"Because Gino made me pay for all of that, you know. He wasn't buying the menu experimentation line."

Now it's Ryland's turn to be thrown off his game. "Wait, if you've been buying me lunch for the last month, does that mean we've been going on dates that whole time?"

"Huh." Alex tilts his head, considering. "Maybe. Kind of."

"Wow. We're like an established relationship."

"That means you don't have to wait to put out."

"Oh, don't worry," Ryland says. "I wouldn't." Alex grins and goes for Ryland's neck again, and it really is, for real, _genuinely_ difficult for Ryland to make himself catch Alex's wrist, get his attention, turn him away from his goal.

"The thing is," Ryland says carefully. "I wouldn't any time except _right now_."

Alex stares at him. It's that same look from the lunches, the one that Ryland now realizes means _We are operating in two entirely different languages and I hope like hell someone starts translating soon._ "What do you mean?"

"I want to hook up with you. I really, really do. Like, a lot. Immensely."

"And also have a mutually fulfilling emotional relationship, I hope."

"Oh yeah. Totally. But one that features a lot of sex."

Alex nods. "Like, frequently."

"In weird positions and using stuff you buy in stores that black out their windows. But that's not the point right now."

Alex looks at him for a minute and then says cautiously, "The point is...why we _won't_ be doing that?"

"Right now! Just right now. For, like..." Ryland thinks for a minute, doing the math of Gabe's attention span times Elisa's opinions divided by the fact that Nate's going to do whatever the fuck he wants anyway, raised to the power of the average lifespan of one of their band names. "I'd say ten days?"

"We can hook up in ten days."

"Probably."

Alex sighs and drags his hand through his hair. "I'm terrified to ask this, but care to explain why?"

"We renamed the band? To be in line with a new manifesto."

"What kind of manifesto?"

Ryland shrugs and shoves his hands in his back pockets. This is really the test, right here. If Alex turns around and leaves right now, that will...well, it'll tell him a lot about his own life and priorities, at the bare minimum. "I think I can sum it up by telling you the new band name is Celibate For Our Art."

Alex looks at him for a very, very long time.

Ryland offers his best smile.

"Ten days, huh?" Alex says finally.

"Yeah."

"That's just stupid enough that I have to enable it." Alex leans in again and kisses him, deep and hot. "Trust me, it'll be worth waiting for."

**

After a fast consultation with Elisa, who can be a pretty solid ally when she wanted to be, especially when it comes to the subject of "Gabe's terrible plans," Ryland demands a band vote to define the exact parameters of celibacy. Once the yelling is done, they've agreed that masturbation is out but making out is in, as long as things were stopped before dry-humping was achieved.

"This counts as mutiny," Gabe informs Ryland with a dangerous glint in his eye. "Don't think I'll forget it." Even though mutiny implies a certain level of sworn loyalty that Ryland never promised, that is still a deeply unnerving thing to hear.

But anyway, masturbation being out meant that Ryland mentally revises his estimate of how long this is going to last down from ten days to a week, then goes about his business. He puts in his notice at the restaurant, buys some witty and flattering t-shirts to wear to rehearsals, and blows yesterday's tips on video games, because it's Alex's night off and he's coming over for a good old-fashioned console marathon.

Ryland did not expect it, but it turns out that Alex is actually evil.

He shows up on time, wearing a green t-shirt that's a little bit tight, just enough that Ryland finds it distracting. He's also carrying a bag of groceries and smirking as he comes inside.

"I was just going to order pizza," Ryland says, closing the door behind him.

"I know." Alex sets the bag on the table and kicks his shoes off. "This'll be better."

"It's your night off. You shouldn't have to cook."

"I actually like cooking. That's why I do it for a living."

"Yes, but it's your _night off_."

"And I'm cooking for one instead of a couple hundred. That makes a big difference, trust me." Alex grins at him and then points to the couch. "Go sit. I'm going to wow you."

Ryland lingers at the edge of the kitchen, frowning at his stove. "I don't think I even have all of the equipment you need."

"I can improvise. I'm creative."

"I mean I may not have _pans_."

Alex laughs and shakes his head. "Trust me. I'm _very_ creative."

Ryland looks at him closely. "Is it my imagination, good sir, or did you say that in a way that implies a double entendre?"

"Go away now." Alex points to the couch again. "Shoo."

"I thought we were going to play video games."

"You can start now. I'll join you when I'm done." Alex starts digging through the drawers and Ryland obediently retreats to the couch. He even picks up a controller, but he doesn't really play. Alex in a kitchen is Alex in his element, and Alex in his element, without the distractions of other cooks and threats of disembowelment or scalding, is a profoundly sexy thing.

 _Cooking_ is profoundly sexy, much to Ryland's dismay. There's all the tasting, which involves licking. There's the intense concentration on vegetables, many of which are distressingly phallic. There's Alex's careful, controlled motions in the tiny space of Ryland's kitchen, and the thoughtful expression on his face, and...

Fuck, there's just _Alex_. Now that it's occurred to Ryland to think about Alex and sex in conjunction, that's _all_ he can think about. But not do anything about. Because Gabe Saporta is a terrible human being.

"You know," he says cautiously while Alex is stirring something on the stove, "instead of playing video games, we could..."

"I wouldn't want to ruin your band." Alex takes a taste from his spoon and his brow furrows. "Do you have cumin?"

"I don't know what cumin is."

"Damn." Alex goes back to stirring and Ryland looks sadly at his controller.

"It wouldn't ruin the band. This is just a silly thing Gabe came up with because when he gets bored, his brain is like a hyperactive, non-housebroken puppy."

"It pees on things?"

"Metaphorically." Gabe's _brain_ peeing on things is metaphorical. Gabe himself, on the other hand...but Alex doesn't need to know that.

"It might be good for your role, too," Alex says, taking the pot off the burner. "I've read about athletes being celibate before a big game."

"I'm not an athlete. I can barely do jumping jacks."

"Still, I'm sure the principle translates."

"Do you hate me? Has this all been a terrible ruse?"

Alex shoots him a look over the tops of his glasses. "This was your idea, Ry. I'm holding you to it. That's the right and honorable thing to do."

"And you're kind of getting a kick out of torturing me."

"Not as much of a kick as I would get out of blowing you, but enough of one that I'm going with it, yes."

Ryland groans and slumps down in his seat. "That is not fair."

"Life isn't fair, princess." Alex turns to open the oven. "Don't take it personally."

**

Gabe is always weird when Ryland gets an acting gig. Supportive, and very quick to adjust the band schedule accordingly, but...weird.

"I'm not quitting," Ryland says patiently, watching Gabe fidget in his desk chair and copy the rehearsal and first-run dates from Ryland's planner to his own. "Just need some flexibility."

"I know. It's cool, man. And if we run into a thing, I can get somebody to sub in."

"They won't be as good as me." Okay, maybe Ryland gets a little weird, too.

"Of course not, brother." Gabe smiles and tosses his pen down, then stands and pulls Ryland into a tight hug. "I'm proud of you, you know that?"

"Thanks." Ryland hugs him back, rubbing Gabe's back and wondering how his bony-ass skinny self keeps the schedule he does. "Showing my dick on-stage is totally something to be proud of."

"You know what I mean." Gabe lets go and sits again, turning his laptop toward him. "Wheels are in motion for us all."

"I don't know what that means."

Gabe smiles slightly, his eyes on the screen. "It means enjoy your damn gig, Ry. Don't worry about me or Elisa or Nate."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Liar."

Ryland hates it when Gabe does this. Quietly knowing that there's a smart, loyal guy under the clown is one thing. Having a conversation with him that acknowledges both of them having feelings is very different.

"So hey," Gabe says abruptly, clicking on something in his e-mail. "You and Suarez are a thing?"

"What?"

"The chef guy. Suarez. Your childhood buddy."

"How did you know about that?"

Gabe's mouth twists up in a smirk. "Elisa told me."

"How did _she_ know?"

"She has powers."

Ryland exhales slowly. He actually does kind of suspect he might have gotten sappy-drunk at the bar the night after he quit the restaurant. Crap. "Yeah. We're...seeing what happens."

"That's cool."

"That is, we're seeing what happens as much as we can, given your current set of stupid rules."

Gabe's definitely still smirking. Ryland would be well within his rights in Florida to kill him. He's not sure about New York state. "Forbidden fruit is the sweetest, man. Even if that fruit is your sweaty, hairy junk."

Ryland flips him off and gathers his things with dignity. "I'll have you know I'm manscaping for my role."

"Have Suarez help you with that. Total sex substitute."

"I hate you," Ryland says, and does his best exit-pursued-by-a-bear.

**

Alex comes over and makes dinner again the night after Ryland's first rehearsal. Ryland deeply appreciates the company, even though he's kind of lousy at returning the favor, given that he spends the whole time Alex is cooking lying flat on his back on the floor with a t-shirt over his face for roach protection.

"It was awful," he says from under the shirt. "I embarrassed myself. And my family. I should fall on my sword."

"It was the first day. It's supposed to be awful."

Ryland pulls the shirt down enough that he can see over it. "You don't understand."

"Did they fire you on the spot?"

"No."

"Then you're okay. You can show them your stuff tomorrow." Alex steps over him carefully and carries his plate to the couch. "Literally. Are you going to eat or are you going to just stay there?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Because I'm going to eat either way. I don't want this to go to waste."

Ryland considers for a moment. "It does smell good."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Blackinton. Get up and eat."

Ryland drags himself off the floor and dishes himself up a plate of whatever it is. Possibly gumbo. Alex is watching whatever's on the TV and laughing to himself, not offering a menu description, and Ryland doesn't have the heart to distract him.

When he joins him on the couch, though, Alex shifts around and swings his feet up into Ryland's lap, offering him a broad smile. "Whoa, eye contact. Best date night ever."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. I'm trying to get you to smile."

Ryland does his best to oblige. It gets easier as Alex digs into his food, since it turns out eating is pretty sexy, too, when Alex does it. There's spoon-licking. And finger-licking. And lip-licking. And little noises of appreciation. Goddamn it. Alex is the living embodiment of food porn, and it's extremely unfair.

"You're staring," Alex mumbles around a mouthful. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Just your face."

Alex thinks for a minute, then shrugs. "Not much I can do about that."

That's as close as an opportunity for a suave opening line as Ryland is ever going to see. "Maybe I can do something." He leans in before Alex has a chance to react and kisses him on the cheek.

Alex swallows and blinks. "Thanks, Grandma?"

"Fuck off. Your mouth was full of food. Dumbass." This time Ryland kisses him on the mouth, blindly setting his plate in the direction of the coffee table so he can slide his hands up Alex's arms.

"I am still not having sex with you," Alex murmurs between kisses, leaning back against the arm of the couch so Ryland can stretch out on top of him.

"Making out is on the authorized list."

"Yeah, I know. Elisa told me."

Ryland stops for a minute, nearly going crosseyed trying to look Alex in the face from so close-up. "You and Elisa talk?"

Alex shrugs. "We text."

This is alarming news that shakes the very foundation of Ryland's worldview. The only thing to do is ignore it and go back to kissing his boyfriend.

Making out on a couch is a lot easier for people who are shorter than six feet. Still, they both have experience to bring to the event. Alex gets his hands down the back of Ryland's sweats, rubbing and squeezing at his ass, and Ryland places kisses and soft bites along the collar of Alex's shirt, low enough that they'll linger safely under his chef's jacket, reminding without drawing the whole kitchen's mockery.

"Fuck," Alex breathes against his mouth. "Your band is really stupid."

"I know." Ryland rests his head against Alex's forehead and tries to will himself into some kind of higher mental state that's detached from his body's primal needs. "I hate them. I could hire a hit man."

"That might be a little extreme." Alex moves under him, rolling his hips up and gasping a little. "Fuck. I really wish I hadn't made this a moral issue."

"I wish I didn't have a standing commitment to the importance of always beating Gabe at his own game."

"I wish you didn't, too." Alex arches up. "Is there a rule against _watching_?"

It takes a minute for Ryland to catch on, but when he does, he can't decide between shouting hallelujah and punching Alex directly in the balls. "You mean you jerk off, I watch you?"

"Yeah."

He thinks back to the band meeting. " _I'm_ not allowed to jerk off, but you're free and clear."

"Sweet." Alex pushes at him until he sits up and moves back to lean against the opposite arm of the couch. "Okay. I'll put on a little show for you."

"An exhibitionist streak. I never would've guessed it, Suarez."

Alex shrugs, not a trace of shame on his face. It's kind of stupidly hot, even if it's _not fair_ that he's going to get off and Ryland isn't. Not fair at all.

"I should just go ahead and get an ice pack for my dick, shouldn't I?" he asks sulkily as Alex shoves his jeans down off his hips. The front of his boxers is nicely tented, which is distracting from the unfairness of the universe, though it does make Ryland resolve to hate Gabe more and ignore him at Hannukkah.

"Just relax." Alex palms himself through the boxers, then pushes them down, too. "I'll make it all up to you as soon as you're released from your deal with the devil."

Ryland's going to hold him to that, he really is. But right now he's putting Gabe and the band and his show and everything else out of his head except for Alex's dick, Alex's hand, and the soft little release of breath Alex makes when he touches himself for Ryland the first time.

He doesn't go _slow_ , exactly; there's no elaborate teasing, no drawing it out deliberately. But he's on Ryland's couch, in Ryland's apartment, making eye contact with Ryland as he strokes himself and rubs his thumb over the head, as he cups his balls and twists his wrist just _so_ , carefully enough that Ryland knows to memorize it, that he'll be using that move as soon as they're able to touch.

Alex has manners, too, catching the jizz in his hand neatly and wiping it on his napkin instead of getting it all over Ryland's couch.

"You're a gentleman," Ryland says, breathless and insanely hard and back to hating Gabe with every fiber of his being. "A sexy, sexy gentleman. I'm going to take you home to meet my grandma."

"Hopefully not until I put my pants back on." Alex crawls down the couch and kisses Ryland deeply, his clean hand cradling his jaw. "Okay if I stay the night?"

"Absolutely." Ryland shifts so Alex isn't pressing anything close to his sad, rapidly-becoming-azure-tinged balls. "Go make yourself comfortable while I take my cold shower of sadness and bad career choices."

Alex laughs. "I promise, when this is over or your show opens, whichever comes first, I will take a day off work and suck your dick until your eyes cross."

"That will ruin my career." He closes his eyes and kisses Alex again, losing himself in it a little. "I think it'd be worth it."

**

Alex's phone alarm goes off at eight. He whimpers and complains as he drags himself off to the shower, and Ryland watches him through half-closed eyes. He looks good first thing in the morning, too. Unfair, unacceptable, and awesome.

He's tempted to stay right there in bed and seeing if he can find his way back into a very nice dream about swordfighting lizards and Cobra Commander, but that would be kind of a dick move when Alex has to get ready for work, so instead he gets up and starts the coffee maker, then boots up his laptop.

He checks his e-mail first, like any good American of the modern era. Junk, exes, people he's avoiding, his mother, and a three AM message from Gabe.

He opens the last one.

 _Hey bro! My staying power is not in question, but Elisa has moves up her sleeve that I've never seen. Amazing moves. Erotic moves. Moves that have made me question if I've ever truly been with a woman before, and if, even now, I am truly a man._

Ryland closes his eyes tightly and counts to ten, then opens one just enough to keep reading.

 _Anyway, we're not doing the celibate thing anymore, so go ahead and bone your guy. Tell him I said hi! Oh yeah, PS, I'm going to Chicago for a few months to help this guy I know start a band. His name's Tom. He's cool. I'm advising him and serving as his spiritual guru. Not sure when I'll be back. Band hiatus! Hope you don't miss me too much! XOXO, Gabe_

Ryland reads the last part again, twice, then carefully closes the laptop down. He walks to the bathroom and taps on the door, well aware that the lock doesn't work but willing to maintain the polite illusion. "Hey, Alex?"

"Yeah? I'm using your body wash, I hope that's okay."

"Yeah, it's cool. No rush, all right? I'll join you in a minute."

"Um..." The sound of the water stutters, like Alex has turned under the spray. "I appreciate the thought, Ry, don't get me wrong, but I'm not sure I have time."

"Yeah, you do. You're calling in to work."

"I'm what?"

Ryland hides his smile against his arm, leaning on the door. "You promised last night."

"What? I...Oh!" The water stutters again, and there's the sound of feet on the linoleum. Ryland barely stands up straight before the door flies open and Alex yanks him inside. "Are you kidding me? Get in here."


End file.
